Part 4

On the occasion referred to, I was provided with a very full choke twelve bore, which killed at least fifteen yards further away than an ordinary game gun, so that when a grouse appeared on a little “knowie,” I was prompt to align him and to pay no attention to the keeper’s advice that it was “beyont range.” I knew that keepers usually took only very certain chances, and that the cult of the choke bore was not within my companion, so I let off and my grouse disappeared. I, too, was evidently in for great good luck, like the keeper quoted above, for no sooner had one been knocked over than another was up and seeking for war; but not for five times, only four. After this there was a pause too long for patience, and I went forward to gather my game, and end the morning’s sport. The first grouse I came to was only wounded, he had an injured eye or head, and sat bunched up with the bad eye towards me. It ought to have been an easy bird to gather, but over confidence, or want of care, made him suspicious, and he flew away, and when I pulled trigger at him I found that I had not cocked my gun. There was no other grouse to be found, and it became obvious that I had only had one quick change artist to deal with all the time; he had evidently been knocked off his perch by shot that had not penetrated, or had made him uncomfortable enough for him to move at each shot.

I am told that the principal difference between a good shot and a bad one at driven grouse is, that the former knows how to select the easy birds. Without going as far as that I can say with certainty that a grouse, five yards too far off, becomes about twenty times as difficult as he is five yards nearer.

But although this experience of mine was as far from a brilliant success as could be thought of, yet I believe that “becking” is absolutely necessary to the highest possible preservation wherever the grouse do not pack. I should say it was just as useful where they do pack if it could be carried out, but it cannot. When hunger begins to harass the birds in the winter months, they often divide the sexes, like the high churches, as Sir Fred Millbank observed thirty years ago, and obviously when the cocks are all in the fellowship of the unemployed they are not looking out for somebody to have a row with. Nevertheless, there is often much open weather between the end of grouse driving and the end of the season, on December 10th, and where it can be practised successfully, it is well to remember, in the interests of the breeding stock, that “becking” is the only automatic selection of old cocks that has ever been practised, and had probably something to do with the fact that there were more grouse in Scotland in 1872, and before, than there are in these days of scientific heather management and artistic killing of grouse. On dog moors it is particularly necessary, and on them can be easily made successful.

One excellent sportsman of Shropshire, who was not unknown on the Chirk Castle moors, used to tell me that it was quite wonderful how well grouse kept, as he often had them in March. He explained that it was only the cocks that kept so long; and this was before cold storage was thought of.

B.

Hunt “Runners.” II. DAVID SWINTON AND DICK BAKER.

Successive generations of Belvoir Hunt followers will remember the beaming countenance of old David Swinton, the enthusiastic foot-hunter. He always dressed in black, with a clerical-looking wideawake, and carried a stout oak staff. Swinton takes us a long way back into hunting history, for his first day’s sport with the Duke of Rutland’s hounds was in the middle ’thirties, when he was a lad at school. To-day, as he sits by the fireside, approaching his eightieth birthday, he is still hale and hearty, though not an active pedestrian, and is in the unique position of one who has enjoyed sport with the Belvoir hounds under the mastership of two Dukes of Rutland, Lord Forester, and Sir Gilbert Greenall. Though the classic pack can boast of huntsmen who served long tenures of office, Swinton has reminiscences of five since 1836, namely, Thomas Goosey, Will Goodall, James Cooper, Frank Gillard, and Ben Capell. Generations of sportsmen have come and gone in that time, and there are not many of Swinton’s early contemporaries left, though foxhunters are a long-lived race.

Until a season or two ago we still had with us Mr. John Welby, the Squire of Allington, one of the best that ever crossed a country, Lord Wilton, and Sir Thomas Whichcote, who were undefeated horsemen in their day. Another hardy old sportsman who rode up to the last, and only joined the great majority a few years ago, was Mr. John Nichols, of Sleaford, who, like Swinton, was entered to sport by Thomas Goosey, and would hunt with no hounds other than the Duke’s. The old runner had just the same sentiment, and although he has had a look at other hunts, he was always loyal in his allegiance to the ducal pack.

The Belvoir, so far as we know, have never had a paid runner, but Swinton became an institution, and certainly during Frank Gillard’s term of office was most useful in performing many little duties which help to keep the internal machinery of a hunt in smooth working order. Though scarlet-coated runners are to be seen with the Belvoir on the Leicestershire side, dividing their attentions between the packs that hunt within distance of Melton, they are never seen so far afield as Lincolnshire. The reason for this is that the area traversed is very wide, and the going is so much heavier that a man on foot would have little chance of keeping in touch with the hunt.

David Swinton dates back to the days when there were active pedestrians in the land, his keenness to see a hunt carrying him through a day’s fatigue such as the rising generation would never dream of. He thought nothing of going on foot ten or twelve miles to a fixture, and would “shog” home at hound pace with the pack at dusk, cutting corners when possible, but often arriving at his destination as soon as they did. Until three seasons ago, when in his seventy-sixth year, he often came out to get a sight of the sport he loved so well. His last appearance was at a Caythorpe fixture, where, he relates, our present field master, Mr. E. W. Griffith, found him out, and noting that he looked tired after walking, presented him with some money, that he might drive on the next occasion, and save his energies.

The other day we found old David in his cottage at Ancaster, the unquenchable fires of the chase burning brightly within him as he revived memories of many a happy day. “I enjoy hunting as much as ever, though now I can only read Mr. Tally-ho’s letters in the _Grantham Journal_; but I follow hounds, for I know every yard of the country,” said the old man, as he leaned on his famous oak staff. “My first sight of the Belvoir hounds I remember as well as if it were yesterday. I was a small boy, standing by Fulbeck Gorse, which was a very thick covert, and old Thomas Goosey, the huntsman, told one of his whips to go in on foot and see to the earth. The sharp gorse was not to his liking, and laughing, I said, ‘Why, he can’t half go through it!’ To which old Goosey replied, ‘It would fetch the bread and butter out of your fat legs, you young rascal!’ That was in 1836. After that I never missed a chance to run with hounds. I was a tailor, and had lots of work to do, but I planned it to see as much hunting as possible, my wife and I often being up nearly all night stitching, to get clothes finished off.”

Lord Forester held the mastership of the Belvoir from 1831 to 1857, and Swinton reminds us that he was “a tall, fine gentleman, and a splendid horseman, who rode right up to the pack.” He used to stutter when giving his huntsman orders. Will Goodall carried the horn in those days; he had been second whip to Goosey, and was promoted over Tom Flint, who had “developed a thirst.” Those were long days for hunt servants at Belvoir, for the rule was to draw covert while daylight lasted, no matter what might be the distance back to kennels.

Swinton in those days had a tailor’s shop at Ropsley, where they had a half-way kennel for hounds when hunting the wide fixtures on the Lincolnshire side of the country between twenty and thirty miles distant from Belvoir. Thus he saw a good deal of Goodall and his whips, for after making the hounds comfortable for the night, they used to refresh at the Fox Brush Inn. About eight o’clock at night Goodall used to mount an old brown hack mare, and gallop the fourteen miles back to Belvoir in the hour, to be ready to hunt a fresh pack on the Leicestershire side next morning. He always took a whipper-in with him. Goodall was a very daring horseman, and he took his fatal fall when only forty-one years of age off a horse called Rollison; it happened on the first of April, and he died on the first of May. “I made his last pair of breeches, poor chap!” says David.

The next huntsman, James Cooper, was a little fellow, sharp as a needle, and a very fine horseman who loved a good horse, having one of his own called Turpin. In those days David used to work very hard making liveries; this gave him the chance to stay at villages on the far side of the country for a week together, and he managed to see much hunting. He has been out on foot four days in succession, doing sometimes thirty miles in the day; but of course that made a hard week’s work. He did not care how he got out so long as he could go. For a time he had a little white pony which could go any distance, and he used to lead through gaps and keep going on the road to make his point, not being very far behind at the finish.

The most memorable day’s sport he ever had was March 6th, 1871, when the Prince of Wales, now King Edward VII., hunted with Squire Henry Chaplin and the Blankney hounds. It was a very rough morning, and David, though doubtful if they would hunt, walked from Ropsley to Navenby, fifteen miles, on the chance. He made for Wellingore Gorse, where he met the Rev. —— Peacock, rector of Caythorpe. A few minutes later a fine old fox came into the gorse with his tongue hanging out, as if he had been a bit dusted. So David walked about, wide of the covert to keep him there, and be sure to see if he left. Not long afterwards Charley Hawtin, the Blankney huntsman, came up with hounds hunting the line into the gorse.

Well, they got him away, and ran for the best part of three hours, although he returned to the gorse twice. At last he got to the end of his tether, and David viewed him crawling into the gorse dead beat. As Mr. Henry Chaplin rode up with the Prince of Wales and Lord Brownlow, the smothered worry could be heard going on. The gorse was very thick, but David crawled in on hands and knees and got the dead fox away from the hounds, bringing him outside. “You are a rum fellow,” said the huntsman, “not one in fifty dare do a thing like that, you might have got killed yourself.” “Its all right,” said David, “naught never in danger, but I should like one end of the fox now I have rescued him!” They gave him the mask, which he had set up in memory of the Royal day. Mr. Chaplin asked him if he intended to eat it.

It was a long spell of fine sport they had during the twenty-six seasons Frank Gillard was huntsman, 1870 to 1896; he was in touch with all the country side, and people did all they could to further a day’s sport. Many is the half sovereign David had from Gillard to see that earths were stopped or gates shut after hunting. When it came to digging out a fox it always meant five shillings to distribute amongst those who worked at the job. “Frank Gillard could always trust me,” said David; “he used to say when he heard my halloa, ‘There’s old Dave’s voice, true as a clock!’ You know I never barked false! What long days Gillard did make to be sure, he was never tired of hunting! I have often spoken to him in Ancaster Street, as he rode through with his hounds at eight o’clock at night, and often it was raining hard. He had to get on to Grantham where the three-horse van was in waiting for the hounds, and that meant reaching Belvoir kennels at nine o’clock or after.”

After hunting three years on foot without a ride, David was given a mount by a friend on a nice little horse, and as he rode up to the meet, old Tom Chambers and the whips shouted: “Hurray, we’ve got old Dave mounted at last! What are you doing up there old friend, are you purchasing?” “How the swells did laugh to be sure!” adds David.

One of the hardest days he ever did on foot was a hunt from Barkstone Gorse. They found at twelve o’clock, and never stopped going until three o’clock. David thinks he did not stand still five minutes, and for an hour and a half he had the Rev. —— Andrews, of Carlton, running with him, till he said, “I can’t stand it any longer. Swinton, you’re killing me!” Hounds kept running in big circles out to Sparrow Gorse, and David viewed the fox several times, and never really lost sight of the hunt for more than ten minutes at a time, as he managed to keep inside the circle. Well, hounds hunted him right well, getting him very tired, so that he returned to Barkstone Gorse. He viewed him again coming away, but before hounds had run two fields they threw up, and David could not make head or tail of it, no more could the huntsman, though he did all he knew to help hounds to recover the line. “Well,” I said, “Gillard, he’s done you!” To which he rejoined, “I think by the looks of you he’s done you twice over!” “No mistake, I did have a doing that day.”

Times have altered since those days, and since Sir Gilbert Greenall became master nine years ago. With Ben Capell huntsman, a day’s sport is very much faster, and David has got very much older. He tells the whips to-day that they live like gentlemen, compared with what the Belvoir hunt servants had to do in the past, for everything now is planned to save wear and tear to horses and men.

The old runner’s experiences give us an outline of two different phases in the history of foxhunting, which might be termed the ancient and modern systems of conducting a day’s sport. Though there are some left to tell us of the great changes that have come over our sport, still Swinton’s story goes to prove that hunting people are as kind and generous to-day as they were seventy years ago, for the old runner has many good friends to help him in his declining days.

DICK BAKER.

A man of cheerful, if somewhat rubicund, countenance is Dick Baker. His outlook upon life is that of one who takes no thought for the morrow, and can justify this light-hearted attitude of mind by the circumstance that the world has always treated him well in every sense of the word “treat”; for Dick acknowledges that he is “very fond of his refreshment.” There are many people who welcome their acquaintances with a smile; Dick goes one better, for he generally starts laughing when any one speaks to him; his risible faculty is so delicately poised, that “good morning” has been known to provoke a jovial roar. He may be said to have solved the great problem set by some novelist-philosopher a generation ago, “How to be Happy on Nothing a Year.”

Dick Baker was born sixty-six years ago. How he came to adopt the career he has followed since he was twenty-one years of age, he can hardly explain. He was always fond of horse and hound, and he never took kindly to discipline; running with hounds therefore appealed to him as the ideal occupation for an active and hardy young man who liked to be his own master. Fondness for refreshment, notwithstanding, Dick has reached a hale and happy old age. He can still “keep going” throughout the longest day, and thanks to an outdoor life and a sound constitution, suffers from neither cold nor rain. He dates his career as a runner from about the year 1860, and probably knows more about the Essex, Hertfordshire, and Puckeridge countries than any man living, having spent forty-five seasons running with those packs.

He was for several years under Mr. Parry, when that gentleman was master of the Puckeridge, and he tells many anecdotes of the various huntsmen he has known, Dick Simpson, Hedges, Allen, and Will Wells among the number. Dick’s early ambition was to be a hunt servant, but the Fates denied him; he is, he now admits, safer on his own legs than in the saddle. Upon a day it fell that Mr. Rowland Bevan gave Dick his horse to lead home after a hard gallop. Dick thought it a pity not to try what he could do as a horseman, and reflecting that, inasmuch as the horse had had a long day, it would at least be quiet on this occasion, he mounted. Before he got the horse home he had taken three heavy falls on the macadam; but seemingly he was born a master of what some one has called the “inexact science of falling,” for he boasts that he was none the worse. He has confidence in his lucky star, and expresses it in a fashion that has the merit of originality.

“Why, Dick, I thought you were dead,” said a member of the Puckeridge on one occasion.

“No,” replied Dick, calmly; “God never kills good-looking people.”

How far Dick’s appearance justifies his opinion of his personal attractions our readers are able to judge for themselves.

His master passion is anxiety to be identified with the hunt; to be recognised as a member of the staff. To this end Dick, through the good offices of an indulgent member who at the time held office as hon. secretary, took advantage of the visit of a photographer to the Puckeridge kennels to get his portrait taken with a couple of hounds; in character, as it were. It is probable that this was the proudest moment of his life. That he possesses some business capacity which might have been profitably directed into other channels, is proved by the way he turned this opportunity to account. He ordered a dozen copies of the photograph at the aforesaid member’s expense, and retailed them to members of the Hunt at two shillings apiece.

Dick acknowledges but one enemy in this world, and for that enemy he cherishes hate, the deeper because he cannot be avenged of the outrage it committed upon him. This enemy is the Great Eastern Railway Company, which, with the heartlessness peculiar to railway companies, once “ran him in” for travelling without a ticket. It was really not his fault, he explains; he finished a long day with hounds many miles from home, and thinking he had a shilling in his pocket jumped into the train intending to pay at the other end. The fact that he was mistaken as to the contents of his pocket does not, in his well-considered opinion, justify the Company in haling him before the Bench, and getting him fined ten and sixpence and costs. It was the most costly journey he ever made, and he is unlikely to forget either it or the sequel.

Entertaining, as already mentioned, strong objections to anything like discipline, a master of hounds being, in his judgment, the one mortal being who is entitled to command his fellow-creatures, Dick has rarely attempted permanent work: and when he has done so it has always proved temporary after all; for what reason it seems unnecessary to enquire. In summer he is usually to be found in attendance at cricket matches, and in less exalted cricket spheres rather fancies himself as a bowler. He possesses quite a remarkable instinct for discovering occasions, show, celebration, athletic meeting, or what not, which will yield an odd shilling; and will put in much more and harder work to earn the odd shilling than he could ever be persuaded to do to earn the certain half-crown. He has a family; and it is in no spirit of reflection upon a hard-working spouse that he responds to enquiries with the cheerful—always cheerful—assurance that “the cubs are all right.”

Sport in the City. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

There are times when the tented field is as still as death, times when even the hub of the universe is as dull as any Little Pedlington in the Kingdom. We usually make up for it, however, by a great bustle of company meetings in the concluding month of the year, and these functions have been characterised during the past few weeks by a quite unwonted show of animation. The shareholder, as a rule, is a very patient and long-suffering kind of animal. He pockets his grievances, passes the resolutions submitted for his acceptance, and goes away thankful, in most cases, for very small mercies indeed. When he does break out, however, he is apt to be a very ugly customer, and the lot of the proverbial policeman is quite a happy one in comparison with that of the luckless wight whom duty compels to face the music in his capacity as a director. I do not know whether it is the contagion of heated political assemblies that is spreading its virus in the City, or whether we have come under some malign planetary influence; but certain it is that there is a nasty spirit abroad, and the shareholder goes to his meeting prepossessed with the idea that it is enough to be a director to be either a fool or a knave. For several years in succession it was the fate of the Westralian companies to furnish occasion for these angry gatherings. They, however, are at length vouchsafed a well-earned rest, and the miserable wretches who pull the labouring oar in South African ventures are being given their turn.